


this is romantic, right?

by nootongottlieb



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bad Pick-Up Lines, Drabble, M/M, Mild Injury, Swearing, aka i know nothing about bandom, fluff-ish, we met because i broke your nose in a mosh pit AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 12:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3728782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nootongottlieb/pseuds/nootongottlieb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was woken from his brief reverie by one of his arms smashing into something quite pointy and reasonably hard.</p><p>“MOTHERFUCKER!” he heard before frantically turning around, only to find a short guy in a baseball cap clutching his face. His knuckles were white with exertion. “ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE HOLY FUCK!”</p><p>“Are you okay, dude?” Pete shouted over the noise, moving closer to the edge of the pit and pushing short guy with him. “Do you want me to get some first aid people over? You don’t look good.”</p><p>“DON’T LOOK GOOD?” short guy yelled back at him, although his voice was slightly muffled now as his hands were pressed on either side of his nose and mouth, almost as if he were in prayer. “YOU SMASHED YOUR ARM INTO MY FACE YOU ASSHOLE YOU MIGHT AS WELL SAY FUCKING SORRY.”</p><p>((aka a drabble in which pete breaks patrick's nose, hits on him a little, gets hit, and tries to get a guy's number at 2am))</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is romantic, right?

**Author's Note:**

> first things first, ignore the title. it's sarcastic and awful and i hate my inability to title ANYTHING.  
> secondly, i wrote this as a 'we met bc i broke your nose in a mosh pit' AU (see this tumblr post: http://tokiosunset.tumblr.com/post/105774914690) over the course of 40 minutes while i was procrastinating. i hasn't been edited and i have no idea when or where this is supposed to occur or how much cabs in america cost specifically, but i decided i needed to finish something and post it so i couldn't go back and edit it and never get started on anything new, so here this is. if i've ruined peterick forever feel free to destroy me, but frankly i don't think this hastily-written piece of self-pandering fluff is half bad, and i hope at least a tiny part of you enjoys it too! B-))

The air was thick with evaporated sweat in the pit, but Pete didn’t really mind. Being such a ‘visible fixture’, as it was sometimes put, of the Illinois hardcore scene, it wasn’t often that he got to feel the energy off the stage, but when he did he welcomed it with open arms (or as open as he could get them when we was pressed in like a sardine in a can full of heated, leaden-limbed young people). It was here where he felt most alive, with the bass pumping through his bones and his heart filled to the brim with the moment, because it felt like a sixth sense the way the music held him, a sense so strong he had to close his eyes to get a hold of it, just for a second, and-

He was woken from his brief reverie by one of his arms smashing into something quite pointy and reasonably hard.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” he heard before frantically turning around, only to find a short guy in a baseball cap clutching his face. His knuckles were white with exertion. “ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE HOLY FUCK!”

“Are you okay, dude?” Pete shouted over the noise, moving closer to the edge of the pit and pushing short guy with him. “Do you want me to get some first aid people over? You don’t look good.”

“DON’T LOOK GOOD?” short guy yelled back at him, although his voice was slightly muffled now as his hands were pressed on either side of his nose and mouth, almost as if he were in prayer. “YOU SMASHED YOUR ARM INTO MY FACE YOU ASSHOLE YOU MIGHT AS WELL SAY FUCKING SORRY.”

“Oh dude that was your face? I’m sorry man, really.” The band on stage had just finished their set and the crowd was loosening, the gaps between people growing wider for the fraction of a second in which the energy had lulled. Pete seized his chance, shoving the guy out of the pit and into the open beside the venue. They stopped on a small patch of grass just a few metres from the bulk of the crowd.

“Fuuuuuuuuuucking hell,” the guy moaned, although he’d stopped shouting so Pete reckoned he was maybe going to be okay. Maybe. Hopefully.

“Can you show me your face, dude? I wanna know if we need first aid over here,” Pete tried to say as gently as possible.

The guy looked up, his hands flying off his face with such a fury that Pete reflexively stepped back. “I think we’re gonna need first aid,” he growled.

Pete nodded and muttered something he hoped sounded like _yes of course, I’m getting them right now_ before running off to the first aid tent and asking if they’d check this guy’s face out. He hoped he didn’t say what he was really thinking, which was something more along the lines of _if you need first aid I need a cosmetic surgeon_ , because now really wasn’t the time for some of his patently awful pickup lines. Those were for once they’d cleaned the blood off the dude. Frankly, he was excited to see if he was even hotter when his nose wasn't swollen.

***

“Broken, probably,” the paramedic announced after a moment’s investigation of the guy’s face. “We’ll get you and your friend here in the ambulance and drive you over to emergency.”

The guy’s head whipped around to face Pete with a look of attempted malice. It was kind of cute. “He’s not my friend,” he snarled.

Pete grinned and slung his arm over the guy’s shoulder. “That’s right!” he gave the paramedics the best knowing look he could muster. “He’s my boyfriend.”

The guy spluttered somewhat, but made no further noise as the paramedic ushered them over to the ambulance, showing them both to seats in the back.

“If you’d make sure your _boyfriend_ kept holding that cotton wool to his nose, we’ll be there shortly,” she told him curtly, before slamming the door in Pete’s face.

“So, we haven’t been properly introduced,” Pete began, swinging around to face the guy only to be met by a slap on the face. “Ow, what the fuck, dude?”

“That’s for breaking my nose, you dickhead,” the guy whispered angrily, punching Pete on the arm. Hard. “And that’s for saying you were my fucking _boyfriend_.”

“You mad because I’m hot or because you wanted to get coffee first?” Pete joked, putting up his hands to intercept the guy’s fist as it came swinging – except the hit never came. Lowering his arms, he saw that the guy had found himself a seat on the left side of the van and had buckled himself in. After a moment’s hesitation, Pete made as if to move to the seat next to him.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Pete nodded and instead sat down directly opposite him. The guy snorted and muttered something that sounded like _of fucking course_.

After a minute or so of silence the engine started up and the van began to move. Pete waited a few seconds more before attempting conversation again.

“So, you’re into dudes though, yeah?”

“None of your business,” the guy replied, although his face went a little red. _Good enough to try_ , Pete thought to himself.

“Your name my business enough?”

The guy hesitated, catching Pete’s eyes for about half a second before looking back down again. “Patrick,” he muttered.

“Pete,” Pete replied. “Cute name.”

“Yeah, well, yours is pretty shit,” Patrick replied, before snickering only half a second later. “I’m sorry, I have no idea why I said that.”

Pete grinned. “No, you’re right, man. Pete is a fucking shit name.”

“Not as shit as you are,” Patrick replied, although there was no malice in his words. Pete might just have a chance.

***

It was 2am before they got out of the hospital, with Patrick’s nose successfully taped and cleaned. After a long hour of waiting in a room full of sneezing middle-aged people and one vomiting grandma, Pete had finally been allowed to go into the actual doctor’s room and see Patrick, who he was pleased and slightly smitten to see looked even cuter when we wasn’t screaming expletives or hitting people. The doctor had told Patrick when to come back to get it checked but assured him he would make a full recovery, both physically and aesthetically, and sent them on their way.

Only problem was, it was 2am and they were in a hospital parking lot.

“Do you have a phone?” Patrick asked Pete after they’d been standing there for a while. It was the middle of winter and he was only wearing a cardigan over a t-shirt, his arms crossed over his chest in something of a death-grip. His cap was back on, covering his eyes. Pete was pretty sure they were blue, from the glimpse of them he’d gotten earlier. Maybe he’d get to see them more, if he could get Patrick to hit him again, but for now he figured he might as well comply. There was something about Patrick that looked tired, and perhaps being a little bit less of an asshole wouldn’t kill Pete for just five minutes.

“Yeah,” he pulled his flip phone out of his back pocket, “you wanna call a cab?”

Patrick looked up at him, a surprised look on his face. “What, no shitty pickup line that time?”

Pete held up his hands. “I got nothing,” he replied with a grin, noticing he’d been right about the eyes. “I’m trying for a pun about those baby blues of yours but it might take a while. My brain’s all over the place.”

Patrick blushed violently, stepping away a little. “R-right,” he stammered, opening up the phone and half-dialling a number before pausing. “You’ve got money for the cab, right?”

“Uhhhhh, yeah. Yeah.” Pete reassured him, pulling out his wallet to show the $30 cash he had. Patrick nodded approvingly and finished dialling the number, putting the phone to his ear and talking to whoever was operating the line.

“Yeah, Evanston Hospital. In the parking lot. We’ll be waiting out the front. Okay. 15 minutes, alright.” Patrick closed the phone and put it in his pocket. “We’d better head out the front, it’ll come for us there.”

It hit Pete as they walked out the front that this might be the last he’d see of Patrick. True, their first meeting hadn’t been the sort of thing cheap corner-store romance novels were made of, but he would hazard to guess that most first meetings weren’t, and he’d be fucked if he let something as stupid as breaking a guy’s nose stop him from asking him out. Besides, what kind of guy wears trucker caps in the middle of winter. _A keeper_ , Pete thought to himself as the cab pulled up. Patrick insisted he lived furthest away, so Pete gave the driver his address first, already disappointed that one way of finding him in the future had been foiled. It was up to him to think, and time was running out. Each corner they passed was another corner between him and getting Patrick’s number, and- wait. Patrick’s number. It hit him as they pulled up to the kerb, right by Pete’s parents’.

“So, this is where I leave you,” Patrick said.

“You’re not even going to give me your number?” Pete half-joked, half-prayed.

Patrick gave him a tiny smile, pausing before he answered. “Maybe if we meet again, asshole.”

Pete tried not to let his disappointment show as he opened the door of the cab, stepping out into the cool early morning air. “Yeah, ok. Fair enough. Look, have a good night or day or whatever, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Patrick almost yelled back at him as Pete made his way up the drive, cursing quietly to himself. He heard the cab drive off, and made sure it was out of sight before sitting down in the middle of the driveway and sighing in defeat. It hadn’t worked. He hadn’t got Patrick’s number. He was probably never going to see the guy again, and it sucked. He knew nothing about him, true, but he felt like they would have worked. Once again, he'd screwed up, he thought to himself as he kicked at a nearby rock like a sulking child.

He was resigned to the thought of moping around for a few days when he was shocked out of his reverie, again, by the sound of a car driving up to and stopping right outside his house. He barely had time to register the sound before a car door swung open and someone was jogging up his driveway.

“I forgot to give this back to you,” Patrick said lamely as he held the phone out to Pete, staring down at him sitting on the cold sludgy concrete.

“Oh, thanks dude,” Pete stammered back. Patrick opened his mouth as if to say something, but seemed to decide against it before running back to the cab and once again driving off into the darkness. Pete flipped open his phone; all seemed to be well. No new messages, no calls since the taxi, all the same contacts- wait. There was a new contact. Right between Pam and Paul, Patrick ;). He had typed a winky face. Pete felt his face go a good kind of numb as he ran back out onto the road. The car was gone, but Patrick had left his number. Hastily, he began to compose a text.

_2:57am_

_pete: changing ur contact name to trick, hope u don’t mind, sounds catchier – pete xo_

_3:42am_

_trick: still no puns? Ur a disgrace :)_

_pete: If I send u the best i can come up with will u laugh_

_3:43am_

_trick: only if it’s baaaaad >:-)_

_3:44am_

_pete: In that case your eyes are as blue as the atlantic ocean, and I’m lost @ sea_

_3:50am_

_pete: patrick?? sorry if that was weird pls respond???_

_3:51am_

_trick: u wanna take me out for coffee tomorrow?_

_pete: baby u must be a broom because u swept me off my feet ;)_

_trick: is that a yes or am I buying my own coffee_

_pete: that was a yes_

_3:55am_

_trick: good :)_

**Author's Note:**

> how do you even format texting we may never know
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! if you want to witness me reblogging things as badly as i write things, go check me out on tumblr @ nootongottlieb (the hyperlink html wasn't working sorry) because i am predictable and have the same username for almost everything.


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